


and to make the darkness bright (paint the sky with stars)

by ICryYouMercy (TrafalgarsLaw)



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Blind Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 09:29:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3805363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrafalgarsLaw/pseuds/ICryYouMercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>should have been, could have been, would have been, so horribly pale compared to what is</p>
            </blockquote>





	and to make the darkness bright (paint the sky with stars)

**Author's Note:**

> For the promptmeshakespeare birthday exchange.
> 
> Written for desmondsprettyface, for the prompt "Hamlet/Horatio just generally being in love and adorable"
> 
> The daredevil!AU just sort of happened, sorry.
> 
> I hope I managed to do the prompt justice.

There are decided advantages of being a king's son, even if said king has been disgraced and dethroned since. One of those advantages, to Hamlets great relief, is getting a room at the very end of the hallway, a window facing west and another south, plenty of sun in the late afternoon.

But right now, it is morning, and the room is cool and shadowed, the windows wide open, and from outside, the sound of engines and shouting drifts in, mingling with the curious selection of classic rock and hitparade that is currently playing on the radio.

Hamlet isn't really listening, if he's entirely honest. He's more focused on trying to organise his classes, tabs upon tabs upon tabs, some still loading, and he still can't find the information he needs, still doesn't know which classes he will have to take, and which ones he wants to take, but doesn't know how to ask for advice, either.

 

There is a knock at the door, and someone asks, "Excuse me, is this Room 320?"

 

"That's what it says on the door, yes," Hamlet says, not looking away from his computer.

 

"I suppose so," the other says. "Are you my roommate, then?"

 

"Yeah, sure," Hamlet says, still not looking up. He thinks he found something, a table of required courses for his major and a list of example timetables he might be able to make use of.

 

"My name is Horatio, pleasure to meet you," the other says.

 

"Hamlet, likewise," and the his attention is back on finding the listed classes, trying to have none of them overlap while still having a timetable that looks at least vaguely reasonable. It's more difficult than he initially expected, and he eventually has to concede defeat and open up the calendar on his computer so that he'll have the visual to help.

 

"Excuse me?," Horatio eventually asks, and when Hamlet hmms absentmindedly, he continues, "Would you mind picking up your things? It makes moving difficult."

 

"What, can't you just look," Hamlet starts, finally turning to his new roommate. "Where you're going," he finishes far more quietly, taking in the black glasses and bright white cane. "Sorry, I didn't realise," he adds, and then stands to pick up the clothes and books he had simply dropped on the floor.

 

For a moment, neither of them says anything, and then they both start speaking at the same time, "It's alright," Horatio starts, and "Anything else," Hamlet begins, and then they both stop, and say, "sorry, you first," at the same time as well, and then Horatio is laughing, almost shily.

 

Hamlet takes this opportunity to say, "Is there anything else I need to do or not do or know?"

 

Horatio turns to face him, manages to give a very clear impression of looking him over head to toe, and shrugs half-heartedly. "Please don't leave things on the floor, and please don't move my things or the [MÖBEL] without asking."

 

"Why would I do that?" Hamlet asks. "Your things are yours, aren't they? Why would I move them?" Then, he considers the first part of the request, and sighs. "I can't promise the first part. I'll try my best, but you might have to remind me sometimes, sorry."

 

"Thank you," Horatio says. "You needn't worry about it, most people don't realise or forget occasionally. It's no big deal."

 

There is something strange to his voice, something  that remind Hamlet very much of Laertes, of the break in Laertes' voice every time Hamlet had tried to speak to him after everything was over, the way Laertes had insisted it was nothing, it didn't matter, he would adjust. And Hamlet is not the most self-aware or considerate of people, he knows that much. But he also knows that he will be sharing a bedroom with Horatio for at least a few months, and it pays to at least attempt kindness, so he tries the only thing he knows of.

 

"I'm going to get some coffee. Would you like some as well?"

 

Horatio turns towards him again, head tilted slightly aside, and says, "There is decent coffee here? Will you show me where?"

***

"Do you have any tissues?", Horatio asks, in late autumn, voice rough with a strangely persistent cold.

 

Hamlet, who spent the day in bed with fever and nausea, is just tired enough to forget. "Sure, catch," he says, and throws the box on his nightstand vaguely in Horatio's direction.

 

A split second later, he's sitting upright, head spinning from the rapid movement, apolgies tripping over his lips. He has been so good over the last few weeks, has left nothing lying on the floor, hasn't shrugged or nodded or shaken his head at Horatio once, has managed not to ask Horatio to come look at something.

 

The active parts are still more difficult, and mostly Hamlet avoids them as well he can, avoids making a first move whenever he can. When Horatio holds onto his arm for guidance in a new room or for reassurance when crossing a street, Hamlet has learnt to slow his step. When Horatio asks for directions or a description of something, Hamlet knows what information is necessary, what information is useful, what information is simply entertaining, and what information is incomprehensible. He is usually glad to help when his friend asks, but he doesn't feel secure enough to offer.

 

And now, he has just thrown a box of tissues at Horatio. Maybe it's just as well he doesn't feel secure if offering any sort of assistance when his assistance takes such forms.

 

"Huh," Horatio says. "Thank you." And then, much more quietly, "I didn't know it could do that."

 

Hamlet looks up, horrified and worried in equal measure, to see Horatio holding the box of tissues, mere inches from his face, apparently frozen in the act of catching it.

 

The apologies die on Hamlet's lips, replaced by confusing and rage. "I thought you were blind!"

 

"I am," Horatio says. "But it seems I have found ways to compensate."

 

"Compensate?"

 

"You threw the box, I heard that, and the air moves around it, and you panicked very loudly indeed, so I thought you must have thrown it at my head, and I simply guessed and tried."

 

"Huh," Hamlet says. Then, he lies down again, his head still spinning and the nausea rising again. "We'll talk about this more once I'm awake."

 

Horatio sighs deeply. "You'll never stop throwing things at me now, will you?"

***

Halloween comes with the news of Hamlet's father's death, and everything in him wants to go home, to fix this, to make everything alright, to make this not have happened.

 

Christmas comes with the news of his mother's marriage to his uncle, and Hamlet feels like can never go home again, feels betrayed and hurt and lost, and his uncles letter about how he would regard Hamlet as his own son from now on doesn't help in the least.

 

What does help, in a rather terrifying way, is the letter from his lawyer, informing him about his inheritance, about the money his father set aside for him, about bits and pieces of memories that are now his. Hamlet wonders if that makes him shallow, makes him a bad person. But this isn't about wealth, he knows that much. It's about knowing that he won't have to worry, he won't have to stop himself from feeling. And, most importantly, he won't have to go back, won't be dependent on his uncle for financial security.

 

It grants him, above all, the indepence he needs to grieve his father.

 

He spends his first Christmas away from home, in a dormroom with his best friend. There are exactly two Christmas gifts, one for each of them. They order Chinese for dinner. After, they eat the last of the chocolate bars Horatio bought in case of emergency.

 

It's nothing at all like the banquets of Hamlet's childhood, and nothing at all like the expensive and carefully organised dinners of his late teens, and it's the best Christmas he ever had.

 

Losing his father hurts like an open wound, but with Horatio at his side, the pain is bearable.

 

***

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern show up on the first day of the spring semester, dressed in black and blue and looking rather intimidating. They introduce themselves, and tell Hamlet that his uncle and his mother worry about him, and that they were told to keep an eye on him.

 

Horatio listens to them in a wonderfully disdainful manner, the way he turns his head down, tilts it just the slightest bit to the left, shift his body so that they stand on his eleven o'clock, his whole body language telegraphing that he is listening, and listening very, very carefully at that, and that he doesn't believe a single word they say.

 

Hamlet, next to him, does as is expected of him, and says, "There is no need to worry," and, "It's very considerate of them," and "Thank you for letting me know," and he knows, and they know that every single word he says is nothing more and nothing less than a loud and resounding 'fuck you and the horse you rode in on'.

 

They stick close to Hamlet and Horatio, and they don't say a single word all they, and they have a room right across the hallway. It feels invasive and terrifying, and Hamlet wonders what it says about him, that he reacts with such revulsion and rage at his mother's worry and attempts at caring for him.

 

And then he and Horatio are finally alone, the door to their room safely shut and locked.

 

"They were lying," Horatio says.

 

"About?"

 

"I don't know, I just know they were lying."

 

"How?"

 

Horatio shrugs, and grins broadly. "I can hear their heartbeats, and the way their voices shook, and the way they carefully stopped and moved around certain words."

 

"Huh," Hamlet says, and throws a pillow at him. Horatio catches it easily.

 

"Can you handle this?", Horatio asks after a while.

 

Hamlet wants to tell him no, and wants to run and hide, but the only thing he can tell his friend is the truth. "As long as you stay with me, always."

 

"Oh," Horatio says, and offers his hand for Hamlet to hold.

 

***

The dance classes only happen because Rosencrantz's and Guildenstern's expression of his uncle's concern about Hamlet's lack of a social life apart from Horatio have grown increasingly invasive.

 

Hamlet doesn't have any particular wish to have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend for that matter, and he finds all the friendship he desires in Horatio's company. But midterms are looming, and he doesn't have the energy to handle daily reminders that he must find some special, that he cannot be alone like this all the time.

 

And the insult against Horatio hurts much more than the implication of Hamlet's own incompetence, even after little more than half a year of knowing each other.

 

But Hamlet swallows his pride and heartbreak both and signs up for dance classes. He isn't much interested in most sports, and someone of his background engaging in politics feels invasive, so his choice of social pursuits is rather limited. But dancing is something he has always enjoyed, from the first clumsy steps with Laertes giggling in his arms, to achieving something like proficiency, Ophelia following his lead easily, only stepping on his feet when she's had a bad day. Of course, there had been days when their teacher had been gone, had left them with nothing more but instructions to practice.

 

Those days, he liked best. Those days, he'd dance with Laertes as much as he danced with Ophelia, never leading a single dance. They told each other stories, whispered into the strange intimacy of the rhythm and heartbeat falling between them, told each other what secrets they had, and what secrets they dreamed of.

 

Hamlet doesn't want the memories to fade, doesn't want to let anyone as close as Ophelia and Laertes were, but the steps come easily with the music, and he doesn't need to put his soul into it any longer, and it might just be enough to fool his uncle into thinking he is still trying to live up to his legacy.

 

The first lesson is a disaster already, Hamlet's defenses worn thin and soft after a winter spent with Horatio, a winter spent with a friend, for the first time since Laertes and Ophelia left. The woman he dances with is an economy student, quickwitted and light on her feet, easily following Hamlet's lead. Following so easily that after a while, Hamlet stops leading at all, let's her guide him instead, let's her take command. A casual observer might not notice the difference, but to Hamlet, it is heartbreakingly obvious.

 

He dances like a carefully programmed machine, steps lined up carefully and correctly, no emotion or communication distracting him anymore, nothing touching him anymore, and it feels wrong enough to speed up his heartbeat, to leave him shivering with fear and cold even in someone else's arms. He leaves as soon as he can, goes back to his and Horatio's room just long enough to find a towel and pyjamas and soap, and goes to take a shower, tries to wash of the memories of a stranger's touch.

 

Horatio doesn't ask about it, doesn't mention it at all, until the next week and with it the next lesson comes around. "You want me to come with you?", he asks.

 

"Please," Hamlet says.

 

There is a short discussion about two men dancing together, especially as there are never enough men in any given dance class, and as much as there is no question of the intimacy of it, and no question about people wanting to dance with their significant others, it doesn't seem fair to ask women to learn to lead when there are men they could partner with.

 

Horatio sighs, and gestures at his cane and his glasses, and asks the instructor, "And how should I lead a dance, when I cannot even tell where I am going?"

 

There is a moment of embarrassed silence, and the discussion is over. Horatio is standing close enough to Hamlet that they are just barely touching, and that's when Hamlet remembers that he just forgot, again.

 

"Do you know the steps?", he asks, feeling like a fool.

 

"I don't think so," Horatio says. "You will have to tell me."

 

"Of course," Hamlet says. And then, after a moment's thought, he asks, "Could you do the same thing you do when I throw something at you?"

 

"You plan to throw the instructor at me?"

 

"No, no, but can you, if we move to the front, maybe you can hear him? Maybe you can know some of it?"

 

"Maybe," Horatio agrees.

 

It takes a while, a much of their first lesson together, Horatio is focused more on their teacher than on Hamlet, but it works surprisingly well once Horatio gets the hang of it.

 

Horatio doesn't follow easily, doesn't follow at all at times, too focused on their lessons, on his surroundings, to pay much attention to Hamlet.

 

And yet, by the end of the evening, he fits into Hamlet's arms the way only Laertes and Ophelia have done before. And slowly, parts of his broken heart begin to heal again.

 

***

It's almost the end of the semester when Hamlet's uncle finally loses his patience. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had been rather insistent that Hamlet visit his mother during the summer holidays,and Hamlet had been equally insistent about refusing.

 

This time is different, though. Hamlet is on his way back to his room, hair still wet from his shower, and alone for once. He doesn't think much of it when Rosencrantz and Guildenstern stop him just outside his door.

 

Then, of course, they start talking.

 

"Your father wishes you to come home for your holidays," Guildenstern says.

 

"He's concerned about not having heard from you for so long," Rosencrantz adds.

 

Hamlet just stares at them.

 

"He also requests that you do not bring your acquaintance, as he is worried about his bad influence on you," Guildenstern continues.

 

Hamlet continues staring.

 

"He is furthermore worried that your acquaintance with this man is making you neglect your duties as regards the continuation of your family line."

 

Hamlet blinks. "My father has died last year," he finally manages to get out.

 

"While this is certainly true," Guildenstern begins.

 

"You have been reminded multiple times," Rosencrantz continues.

 

"That you should consider your uncle, and now your mother's husband," Guildenstern goes on.

 

"To be your father, now," Rosencrantz finishes.

 

"And I have multiple times refused to do so," Hamlet tells them. "He is not my father, and I do not wish him to be. I had a father, a good father, and I don't want or need anyone trying to usurp that position."

 

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern step closer, and suddenly they are intimidating in a way they've never been before. "While he has so far been asking and requesting, he told us to remind you that there is nothing preventing him from making this an order, prince," Guildenstern says.

 

Hamlet takes a step back.

 

"He has been patient with your grief and your childish show of it, but time enough has passed since to overcome such immaturity," Rosencrantz says.

 

Hamlet takes another step back.

 

"You are here only by his grace and permission," Guildenstern says.

 

"And you have not once proved deserving of it," Rosencrantz adds.

 

Hamlet takes another step back.

 

"He has proved more than deserving," Horatio says, holding his cane in a white-knuckled grip. "There is nothing he owes his uncle, and nothing he owes you."

 

Guildenstern turns to him, and laughs. "You think we are intimidated by a blind man?"

 

Horatio tilts his head aside, and Hamlet takes another step back. He knows this gesture. It means Horatio is analysing the situation, is hearing out his surroundings. And suddenly he knows what will happen next, if Rosencrantz and Guildenstern will not back down.

 

"You are nothing more than a distraction, nothing more than a bad influence, and you must remove yourself from his presence."

 

Horatio pulls his shoulders back, changes the grip on his cane and starts taking deeper breaths.

 

"He is a prince, and you are nothing but a distraction, you are who has been keeping him from his duty to his parents."

 

And Horatio smiles. "His sole duty is to himself, and not to you or his uncle. He may be a prince, but he is also my friend. Now leave him alone."

 

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern step closer to Horatio. Hamlet steps closer to the three of them, prepared to defend his friend should it prove necessary.

 

Guildenstern raises his fists.

 

And Horatio makes his move. It's too fast, too sudden for Hamlet to process, but by the end of it, Rosencrantz is on the floor and Guildenstern stands with his back to the wall, Horatio's forearm pressed against his throat.

 

"He is my friend, and you will not touch him," Horatio says.

 

Hamlet has to take several deep breaths before he can get any words out. "You should have been a superhero, not a law student," is what he says then.

 

Horatio steps back, leaving Guildenstern to fall to the floor as well, massaging his throat. "And you should have been a king," he whispers. "You should have been my king."

 

***

The night air is cool and soothing after the heat of the day, and out here, so far from the city lights, the stars are bright and clear, and Hamlet might never stop being surprised at just how many there are.

 

He remembers nights spent on castle walls, bedrolls and blankets, whispering secrets to Ophelia and Laertes, and wishing that this could last forever. He remebers Ophelia telling them about her fencing lessons, about shopping trips, about her art, lightly and happily, never mentioning marriage or love. He remembers Laertes telling them about the stars and planets, pointing out the constelations, carefully hiding himself away, and projecting his heartbreak onto uncaring spheres of stone and fire. He remembers his own words about being a king, about being afraid and angry and unprepared.

 

He misses them still, sometimes. They write letters, they call, there are emails sometimes, but those nights on the castle walls are gone forever, and thinking of it still makes his chest hurt.

 

But he is here now, with Horatio at his side. Horatio, who can't see the stars, can't see them spanning wide and harsh over a deep blue sky, can't see any of the magic Hamlet feels. And that feels worse yet.

 

"Can I show you something?" he asks, low and careful.

 

"You are welcome to try," Horatio answers, voice slow and affectionate and mocking.

 

Hamlet shrugs, and reaches for Horatio's hand before he remembers, and then curses under his breath. He has gotten better over time, and the words have grown more and more familiar, but sometimes, when he  is distracted or emotional, he will still forget. "I'm going to be closer to you," he says, and, "I'm going to be touching and moving your hand. Still welcome?"

 

"Of course," Horatio says.

 

So Hamlet moves until their shoulders are touching, and then slowly takes Horatio's hand into his, raises their arms to point at the sky.

 

"There are seven stars almost straight above us, four in a rectangle and three in a bowed line starting at one of the corners," he tells Horatio, tracing out the lines carefully. It feels almost like he is touching the stars like this, with Horatio so close, with the painful knowledge that to his friend, those stars will be nothing more than what Hamlet can tell him. "It's called the great wagon."

 

For a moment, Horatio remains silent. Then, "Show me again?"

 

Hamlet retraces the shape.

 

"Again."  
 

And for a third time their hands follow the imaginary line between stars.

 

Then Horatio very, very carefully traces the line backwards, and then moves further, with even greater care. "Northstar," he says when he stops.

 

Hamlet looks at the sky, and at their hands, and smiles. "Yes."

 

"My father showed me. It's the only one I know."

 

"You've seen the sky?" Hamlet asks, and immediately feels horrible for doing so.

 

"It was the last thing I ever saw," Horatio tells him, voice rough. "It was bright daylight blue, and it hurt like hell."

 

Hamlet closes his eyes, wills the tears away, and wonders at the pain of learning this. He starts moving their hands again, tracing out what he can remember, small wagon, the pleiades, anything at all.

 

Horatio makes him trace the lines over and over and over again, and maybe they really are touching the stars like this, when what Horatio knows of them is a childhood story and the touch of Hamlet's hand.


End file.
